


The Haunting of Musgrave Hall

by adavison



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Facebook: The Pen15 is Mightier, Gen, Ghosts, Kid John Watson, Kid Sherlock Holmes, Kidlock, M/M, Priest Holes, Teen Greg Lestrade, Teen Mycroft, Teen Mycroft Holmes/Teen Greg Lestrade, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 09:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20946434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adavison/pseuds/adavison
Summary: “Well, we’ve eliminated the impossible. This isn’t a dream, and neither of us are hallucinating. Though it’s improbable… it must be something that appears to be supernatural.”“But you said -”“I know what I said,” Sherlock snapped. “If it is, there is sure to be a scientific explanation. Come on, let’s go investigate!”





	The Haunting of Musgrave Hall

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks and gratitude to my wonderful beta, Uncle A. Thank you for keeping me sane and curbing my desire to use all the commas. 
> 
> All mistakes are entirely my own.

“Avast, ye land lover!” Sherlock cried, jumping from the deck as he swung his sword at John. A loud _CRACK _pierced the air, bringing their swords together. There was a look of fierce determination upon the boy’s face; the deep creases on his forehead made him look much older than his ten years. The tip of Sherlock’s sword chipped, unable to withstand the shattering blows. The shard splintered free and spun off into the brilliant azure sky.

“A-ha, pirate!” John exclaimed, wearing a triumphant expression. “I am clearly the superior swordsman and shall defeat you before you can plunder another treasure or attack any more ships.” Every few words were punctuated with the clash of their weapons. A light breeze ruffled his sun-bleached hair making him appear ever the rakish hero.

“You are delusional, Captain. I shall take your ship and all others that come after. No one can defeat ‘The Great Redbeard’!” At this, his sword took a massive hit from John’s and exploded into countless fragments, coating the ground in a fine dust. He paused for a moment, slightly shocked. Their reverie was broken, _Bugger_, he thought. It took him ages to find the perfect stick for their dual. 

John, ever the sportsman, cast his own stick aside and smirked. “Wanna bet?” 

With that, he launched himself at Sherlock, wrestling him to the ground. Limbs akimbo, the boys rolled around in the grass as they fought for dominance. Screams of laughter burst from their lips as the summer sun beat down upon them. The parched, yellow grass clawed against their sunburnt skin, though they hardly noticed. The afternoon breeze carried the scent of humid air, sweat from hours of outdoor play, and whatever was being prepared for the evening meal along its meandering way across the flat, almost desolate plane. 

“Boys!” shouted Mrs. Hudson.

John and Sherlock stopped abruptly, attempting to hide the sheepish expressions that crossed their sweaty, red faces. Sherlock was sitting on his friend’s back, attempting to rub his face into the dirt. 

“Honestly! Stop your rough housing and come wash up. Supper is almost ready.”

Sherlock hopped up and held out a hand to assist his friend. They dusted themselves off and traipsed inside, trying to look innocent. 

“Shoes off!” Mrs. Hudson scolded, but with a small affectionate smile. “I won’t have you tracking dirt into this house. Once you’re cleaned up, Sherlock, get your father. He’ll be in his study. I have a bit of a special meal planned for you three.” She winked conspiratorially, then headed back to the kitchen without a backward glance. 

**** 

The dining table was not set to the degree of formality it would have been if Sherlock’s mother were home. Tonight, it was just Mr. Holmes, Sherlock, and John. Even Mycroft was away. The boys had been thrilled at the prospect of a casual evening together. Mr. Holmes had promised that they could camp out in the back garden that night by themselves. It would be a proper adventure. 

Sherlock was not accustomed to having friends stay the night. To be perfectly honest, he wasn’t used to having friends at all. Both the Holmes boys were...odd ones. They had genius intellects but were fairly hopeless in social situations. Well, that wasn’t quite true. Mycroft, at the very least, had more tact than Sherlock and could turn on the charm when he had to. Sherlock was just… Sherlock. He was precocious, truthful to a fault, and had almost no filter to speak of. The other children found him odd and rude. But not John. 

John’s family had recently moved to the village, presumably for his father’s job. Within moments of meeting, Sherlock knew that he was different. Instead of finding him odd, John seemed fascinated and sometimes amazed by his wild deductions, even if they were a bit rude. John never seemed to mind that, even if he were on the receiving end. He did, however, gently point it out in a way that actually made Sherlock stop and think about the impact of his words. Not even his mother could do that. Besides, he was also really good at playing Pirates. You couldn’t beat that or ask for much more in a best friend.

Mr. Holmes strode into the dining room and took up his place at the head of the table, grinning at the boys after removing his glasses and sliding them into his breast pocket. “So, how goes the day?” he asked. “Did the pirate or the king’s men win the naval battle?”

“It was a draw,” Mrs. Hudson answered, entering the room carrying a large serving dish laden with toad-in-the-hole and set it on the table. This was something they NEVER would have eaten had Mrs. Holmes been present. Mycroft would have refused to eat it, citing the need to watch his waistline. 

“Ah well, there’s always tomorrow lads. Mrs. Hudson, will you join us?” he asked while portioning out the meal onto plates.

“Oh no, Mr. Holmes, but thank you. I’m off to a WI meeting. Don’t get into too much trouble boys!” she called as she exited the room.

“Well, tuck in,” Mr. Holmes gestured towards the plates. 

Neither boy needed to be told twice. They dug into the savory pastry with abandon. John absolutely loved Mrs. Hudson’s cooking. His own mother’s cooking was quite good, but nothing beat the meals the housekeeper made. He wondered if she had been a chef before taking on her post at Musgrave Hall, the Holmes’ estate. No, he thought, Mrs. Hudson might be a member of the local Women’s Institute and housekeeper for a respectable family, but there was something about her that seemed a bit...wild. Perhaps she secretly drove a red Aston Martin or smoked whatever it was that made his sister all giggly. Regardless, he was very fond of the older woman and he knew Sherlock was too.

The room was filled with the sounds of eating. Occasionally, Mr. Holmes would ask a question about the upcoming school term or what they had planned for the next day, but all in all, they ate in companionable silence, just enjoying the meal in front of them. After supper, John and Sherlock helped with the washing up. 

“Dad,” Sherlock asked once the last plate was dry and put away in the cupboard, “what’s for pudding?”

With a wry grin, Mr. Holmes said, “Why don’t you two come help me in the back garden and I’ll see what we can do.” 

****

As the summer sun began to set, Mr. Holmes helped the boys pitch the old green tent from his army days. John was surprisingly adept, having been a scout for years. Stars began winking into existence in the now indigo sky, and they built a small campfire to stave off the evening chill. Though still the dead of summer, now that the sun had begun to retreat, the night air was unseasonably cool. Mr. Holmes had pilfered some marshmallows from the larder and had the boys find suitable sticks for roasting. The small fire they had made crackled softly, blending with the singing of bullfrogs and countless unseen insects to envelop the night in a calming haze of sound. The boys chatted on about inane childish things. It was as if the rest of the world had faded away leaving only the boys and the night. 

“Mr. Holmes,” John piped up, “what’s that ruin over there? The one we’re not supposed to go near.” He pointed a finger, still chubby with childhood, toward the far corner of the garden.

“That was the chapel,” Sherlock supplied absently, while trying to achieve the perfect golden-brown exterior of his marshmallow.

“Oh, that’s right. You don’t know the history of the house.” Mr. Holmes straightened up a bit, adopting a slightly more relaxed posture than he did with his students.

“Here we go again,” Sherlock muttered under his breath. John elbowed him and leaned forward, eager to hear.

“Musgrave Hall was built in the mid-1400s by the Capshaw family. The property used to be rather extensive. Besides the house, there was the chapel of course, the kitchen was in its own building, there were stables, and at one point an old carriage house -” Mr. Holmes had been pointing out the locations of the former buildings when Sherlock interrupted him with a groan.

“Dad, I’ve heard this a million times. John doesn’t care about all that.”

“Actually, I think it’s kind of interesting,” John said quietly, throwing a small smile the older man’s way.

Mr. Holmes hummed in thought for a moment and scrubbed a hand against the stubble on his chin. “Well Sherlock, I do have a story about the house that I know you haven’t heard before.” At this, Sherlock perked up a bit. However, he feigned nonchalance by devouring the toasted treat and reaching for another. “The Capshaw family were devoted Catholics and were known supporters of Queen Mary. After the Babington Plot, two Jesuit priests, Macintyre and Jacobson, came to the house seeking refuge. However, unbeknownst to them, Queen Elizabeth had them followed. She conscripted the help of several priest hunters with... less than savory reputations, led by John Mortimer, a particularly ruthless man. She gave them the power to take the house and use whatever means necessary to bring the Jesuits in, dead or alive.” The boys were on the edge of their seats now, listening to Mr. Holms’ story in rapt attention. 

With a satisfied smirk, he continued. “About twenty years earlier, the Capshaw’s, being very enterprising, had priest holes built, one in the attic of the house near the chimney and the other in the chapel with an underground tunnel connecting the two. This gave them a place to hide the vestments from prying eyes and to allow for a quick escape should one become necessary. 

“When Mortimer and his men showed up, the family hid the Jesuits and placed a heavy armoire in front of the priest hole in the house to help disguise it better. Unfortunately, the hunters suspected their treason. They rounded up the family and household staff, about fifty people in total, including women and children, took them into the chapel and slaughtered them all in front of the altar before setting the building on fire. The fire raged, unchecked for hours. The structure collapsed, taking a bit of the tunnel with it. There are reports that the air smelled of roasted pig for days after.” John gulped and wished at that moment that they hadn’t had pork sausages for dinner. 

“Years later,” he continued, “while the house was undergoing renovation, the entrance to the priest hole was discovered. Inside, they found the skeletal remains of Macintyre and Jacobson.” Mr. Holmes paused as he stared into the fire. He seemed to lose himself momentarily in the dancing flames. “A note was found with Jacobson which appeared to be written in blood. It simply read, ‘Macintyre dead. No provisions. Forgive me.’ Upon inspection, it appeared as though Macintyre’s skeleton was covered in human teeth marks. They say on clear nights you can see them wandering the garden above the old tunnel and through the house, searching for a way out.” 

Looking up from the dying fire, Mr. Holmes saw the boys’ eyes were round as saucers. John made a slight squeak when he realized that tonight was a clear night, and he and Sherlock would be sleeping in the garden.

“Well, I think that is quite enough nail-biting terror for one night. It’s rather late.” Mr. Holmes rose to his feet and dusted off his trousers before dousing the fire. “You boys have torches and the lantern is on. I’m off to bed.” The boys stood hastily, eager for the security of the tent. “Oh, and Sherlock, I will have the alarm set. If you two need to come inside for any reason, be sure to enter the code and rearm it once you’re done.” With a nod to his son he headed back into the house, leaving them to their fun.

Neither John nor Sherlock moved in the momentary silence after the door closed. It seemed to stretch on for hours, but finally the sounds of the summer evening wafted back in, breaking their trance. 

“It’s just a story,” Sherlock mumbled.

“I’m not scared if you’re not,” John quietly challenged.

“‘Course I’m not scared. Ghosts aren’t real.”

A shriek sounded to their left, and the boys jumped startled by the sudden noise before Sherlock, his voice quivering, pointed out that it was just a crow perched on a tree branch nearby. The boys traded slightly terrified glances and ran for the tent.

Safely ensconced in their bedrolls, Sherlock lit his torch which cast a small beam of light through the old tent. “Honestly John,” he huffed, “there’s no reason to be cowering under the covers.”

“If there’s not, why are you hiding too?” John smirked at his friend but could not keep his voice from cracking. Sherlock only huffed again, shrugging his shoulders out of the bedroll. “Mum says that Gran visited her the night after the funeral,” he whispered. “She woke up at three in the morning and Gran was sitting at the foot of her bed, humming the lullaby she used to sing when Mum was little.”

“It couldn’t have been your Gran. She was dead.”

“Then what did my mum see?”

“Easy. It was a dream. Ghosts aren't real," he reiterated. 

They were quiet for a while. "Hey Sherlock -"

"Hmm?"

"Why'd you think it's the priests that haunt the house and not the family?"

"Go to sleep John."

John laid back down and stared at the canvas ceiling of the tent, trying to push the grim tale from his mind. It was silly to put so much stock in a stupid little ghost story. That’s all it was anyway, a story. Mr. Holmes had probably made half of it up. But, why couldn’t he get it out of his head? Why was the image of two rotting corpses etched so vividly in his mind?

Forcing himself to focus on something, anything else, John took a deep breath and let the night wash over him. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the cacophony of sounds outside the tent were an orchestra, warming up for some grand concert. He had never been musically inclined, but his mum loved classical music and would drag him to performances of local groups. And though he’d never admit it, often times he would get carried away by the music. He felt quite like Mickey in that one movie with all the music and no words. If he pretended the nighttime noise was music, his brain just might move away from his gruesome thoughts. The frogs and crickets played over one another, practicing their wonky scales. The staccato hoot of an owl, far off in the distance reminded him of a horn. Slowly, ever so slowly, the sounds melded together, along with the soft snores of Sherlock beside him, and began to transform into a melody.

****

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he jolted awake. He wasn’t sure what had woken him. Maybe a sound, though he couldn’t be sure. The crickets were still chirping and a moment or two later the choir of bullfrogs started up again at the pond on the other side of the back garden. Again? Had they stopped? Maybe it wasn’t a sound that had woken him at all, but the absence of it. 

Shoving the unwelcome thoughts from his mind, John shimmied out of his bedroll and grabbed the torch. He needed a piss. There was no point going back into the house. He slipped out of the tent quickly and relieved himself behind the large oak tree not too far from their small campsite. 

On the short trek back, something in the distance caught his eye. Stopping in his tracks, John stood, frozen in horror, as he saw two orbs near the ruins of the chapel slowly making their way closer to the house. Suddenly, one of the orbs vanished. Springing into action, John ran back to the tent.

“Sherlock!” he whispered frantically. “Sherlock, wake up!” He shook his friend roughly, remembering to duck at the last moment. Sherlock had a mean right hook that he tended to throw whenever woken out of a deep sleep, as he had learned the hard way from their first sleepover over the previous Christmas holiday.

“What?” he growled groggily. 

“G-ghosts,” John stuttered, pointing outside.

“John, I told you -” 

“Shut up and look!” John grabbed Sherlock by his shirt and half dragged him out of the tent, pointing at the single floating orb which was now just a few meters from the house before it too vanished. 

Sherlock took in a sharp breath and turned to John, “Couldn’t have been a ghost,” but his faltering speech betrayed the boy’s doubt.

“What else could it be? It came from the ruins, and you saw it heading for the house. It’s the priests.”

“It could be thieves.”

“Thieves?”

“Yeah, thieves. They could be trying to break in.”

Suddenly, an orb appeared in one of the downstairs windows, moving slowly through the house.

“If it were thieves,” John whispered, “the alarm your dad set would have gone off. Wouldn’t it?”

A small look of pride crossed Sherlock’s face, “Oh John, you _are_ learning to be more observant! Good job.”

“_Sherlock_,” he whispered sharply, “not the time. What do we do? Call the police?”

“Well, you just ruled out someone breaking in, unless of course they knew the code which is doubtful. Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t come over at this time. Dad sleeps like the dead. Mummy’s gone until next week doing her lecture series... thing, and Dad said Mycroft would be home in the morning. Even if he were back early, he wouldn’t be crossing the garden at this time of night.”

“Then what else could it be?”

“Well, we’ve eliminated the impossible. This isn’t a dream, and neither of us are hallucinating. Though it’s improbable… it must be something that appears to be supernatural.”

“But you said -”

“I know what I said,” Sherlock snapped. “If it is, there is sure to be a scientific explanation. Come on, let’s go investigate!” He ran back to the tent and began digging around in the bottom of his bed roll. “Aha!”

“What? Sherlock, what are you doing?”

Sherlock emerged from the tent, looking rather ridiculous, with his torch and a deerstalker that was much too large for his head. “Come now, John, you’re a scout. Be prepared and all that rot. Let’s go confirm our hypothesis. I know you won’t be satisfied until we investigate.” He surged ahead toward the back door, John trotting behind a bit reluctantly. 

At the back door, John had to give Sherlock a boost. Though tall for his age, he couldn’t quite reach the top of the doorframe where the key was hidden. They entered the house quietly, Sherlock silencing the alarm before it could go off. The boys flicked on the torches and began stalking through the house. 

Musgrave Hall was impressively large, at least by John’s standards. It hosted five bedrooms, three and a half baths, a library, parlor, study, a spacious kitchen and dining room, a living room, and the attic, which had served as a sort of rumpus room for a few years until Mycroft converted it into his personal study. Sherlock led the way down the corridor on silent feet, motioning for John to stay close.

“The orb appeared in the library window,” he whispered. “It looked to be heading further into the house, towards the bedrooms, so we can forgo looking in the kitchen, dining room, and Dad’s study.” They reached the library door. Sherlock motioned for John to search the right side of the room while he took the left. The moonlight filtering through the large windows caused the high bookshelves to cast looming shadows. Putting on a brave face, John tried to hide his nervousness. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary, though the darkened room certainly gave him the creeps. He stopped momentarily to take in the large family portrait hanging over the stone fireplace. To an outside observer, it would appear as though both Sherlock and Mycroft were smiling and, while not happy, amenable to having their pictures taken. However, John knew better. While he didn’t spend much time with Sherlock’s elder brother, he easily recognized Sherlock’s fake smile. It did not reach his eyes. With most false smiles he had seen, the wearer usually had dead eyes. This was not the case with Sherlock. John could almost see the gears turning in his friend’s brain. Whether he was calculating some complex equation or mentally playing the most recent piece of music his violin tutor had assigned, or some other intellectual endeavor, his mind was certainly not in the moment. 

Turning away from the portrait to continue his search, John felt something like fingers brush against his arm. He jumped slightly and spun around, ready to use his acquired knowledge of martial arts against any foe. Fists raised; John came face to face with a ficus. 

Sherlock snickered quietly then whispered, “Come on, there’s nothing here. Let’s check the rest of the ground floor, then do the bedrooms.”

The ground floor held no clues to what could have been creeping through the house. Shadows danced along the walls and lurked menacingly in the darkest corners, but the spacious rooms were otherwise empty. They ascended the thickly carpeted stairs as quickly as they could. Unfortunately, John's mind began to wander, and he failed to avoid the squeaky fourth stair. The boys stopped dead in their tracks, sure they would be heard. After a moment, Sherlock threw a reproachful glance at John before continuing their ascent. Upon reaching the landing, Sherlock gestured to the first room on the left.

“Isn’t that your dad’s?” John asked warily. 

“Yeah.”

“We can probably skip it, right? He’d probably have woken up if someone or something came into his room.”

“We still need to check.” Sighing at John’s obvious reluctance to enter the bedroom of his sleeping host, he added, “Fine. I’ll go in and look around real quick. You stay here and be on the lookout for anything suspicious.” Not waiting for an answer, Sherlock opened the door just enough to squeeze through and quickly searched the master bedroom and bath. It was a bit odd seeing his father, a man who seemed larger than life, asleep so soundly. Sure, his dad had taken the odd nap on the living room sofa after a large meal, but this was different. The older man’s face was so relaxed. He seemed peaceful and a little bit vulnerable. Sherlock had long ago realized that his parents were fallible, that while they were intelligent, they just couldn’t think on the same level as he and Mycroft. He envied their ability to just shut it all off and rest. Even in the deepest of sleep, Sherlock doubted he was ever that relaxed. He filed these thoughts away for later contemplation. He had wasted enough time in the master suite. There was nothing here, so he slid out of the room and shut the door quietly behind him. 

They made quick work of searching the remaining bedrooms, being sure to search under the beds, in closets, and behind the curtains. The first floor wasn’t quite as spooky as the lower level had been, perhaps this was due to its lack of formal decoration. Sherlock’s room still had the nautical theme it had been shrouded in for years and was rather messy. Sherlock seemed to thrive in the chaos, knowing where each book, toy, and bit of paper was even though it appeared as if it had been thrown around the room by a hurricane. John was starting to get concerned that they would never find what he had seen enter the house. He just wanted to go back to bed. Instead, he was wandering around a great house in the dark, jumping at the slightest noise.

They moved quickly through the Jack and Jill style bathroom that adjoined the brothers’ rooms and into Mycroft’s room. It appeared as though it was hardly used anymore. The elder Holmes brother was going to university soon and had been away most of the summer for an internship. Something to do with the government. The room was painted a neutral beige and was spartan in design. John wasn’t sure if Mycroft had moved out all of his personal effects or if he just had no personality. 

Seeming to guess his thoughts, Sherlock who was crouched beside the bed rolled his eyes and said, “Most of his stuff is in his study, in the attic. He believes the bedroom is for sleeping only. Anything that could distract from sleep is upstairs.” 

He stood, rather quickly, to stalk out of the room. However, in his haste he knocked into the bedside table which sent a brass lamp flying. John dove to the floor and caught it just in time. Heaving a sigh of relief, he haphazardly set the lamp back on its perch, not bothering to fix the shade which was now dangerously askew. They hurried out of the room, praying to whatever god may be listening that this would all be over quickly.

The two guest bedrooms and bathroom were adorned with slightly more austere furniture. The vanity mirror in the last bedroom was slightly warped, distorting the boy’s reflections. As they were checking under the high canopy bed, they heard the sound of muffled voices then a scraping coming from somewhere over their heads. It sounded as if a piece of furniture was being moved.

Frozen in horror, John could see a scene playing out in his mind’s eye of the terrified Capshaw family frantically trying to disguise the priests' hiding spot. 

“Sherlock!” John hissed, “It’s the family! They must be moving something in front of the entrance to the priest hole!”

“Alright,” Sherlock replied. He took a deep breath and steeled himself, preparing to come face to face with something he was sure didn’t exist. “Let’s go.”

The boys crept out of the room, closing the door quietly behind them. At the end of the hall, there was a narrow stone stairwell that led up to the attic. Hearts racing, they climbed. The sound of voices that had steadily grown in volume as they neared the door stopped abruptly. The door was slightly ajar, and a soft light could be seen. Sherlock turned off his torch and motioned for John to do the same. With a resolve of someone much older than their ten years, the boys snuck to the door and peered into the room. The sight that greeted them was something not even their wildest imaginations could have conjured up.

The tall, imposing figure of Mycroft Holmes was standing in front of his desk, two large torches sat on the floor having been long since forgotten. His linen shirt was slightly crumpled, and half unbuttoned. A well-built young man was sitting atop the desk, with Mycroft between his legs. The man had a hand buried in Mycroft’s hair and another was fiddling with the remaining buttons on his shirt. They were kissing in a way the boys had only seen in films. Soft moans and the slightly wet sounds of the exchange could be heard. Sherlock and John stared in shock, frozen in place for a few moments more before John grasped Sherlock’s shoulder and motioned for them to head back outside. 

Once back in the tent, curled up again in their respective bedrolls, Sherlock finally spoke. “They… they were kissing.”

“Yeah. Who was that with your brother?”

“That was Greg. They went to school together.” Sherlock was quiet for a few moments before repeating, “They were kissing.”

“Yeah, they were. So?”

“So, they’re _boys_!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Boys can’t kiss other boys. Can they?” He didn’t seem very sure.

“Well, obviously they can. And they were,” John said evenly. “I mean, Harriet kisses other girls, and that’s fine. Well, Dad wasn’t too happy about it at first, but he’s come around. If girls can kiss each other, boys can kiss each other too.” He yawned and flopped down, trying to find a comfortable position for sleep. “But hey, you were right. It wasn’t ghosts.”

“Hmm… yeah,” Sherlock replied, almost absently, “Mycroft must have met him at the edge of the garden and walked back together. You mistook their torchlight for orbs.”

“Yep. No ghosts. Anyway, I’m knackered. Night Sherlock.” He flicked off his torch and rolled over. Moments later, sleep overtook him. Sherlock could hear the soft snores emanating from his friend. 

Mind swimming with new information, Sherlock lay awake long into the night. While he had never been explicitly told that boys couldn’t kiss other boys, it had been heavily implied. But if Mycroft kissed his friend Greg, and John’s sister kissed other girls then it couldn’t be a bad thing. Could he kiss another boy? Sherlock wasn’t too sure if he wanted to kiss anyone actually. But if he did want to kiss someone, in the future, he could, even if it was a boy. Glancing over at John, he briefly wondered what it would be like to kiss him. There was a funny feeling in his stomach, like the one that happened after cresting the first hill on a roller-coaster. Grimacing, Sherlock was beginning to realize that he was filing a lot of thoughts away for later analysis. There was no point in examining it now. He would get to them all eventually. Besides, his eyelids were getting heavy, and the sounds of nocturnal insects were lulling him to sleep. He’d definitely think on it more tomorrow.


End file.
